


Song of the Fallen Princes

by gorgeousshutin



Category: Shoujo Kakumei Utena | Revolutionary Girl Utena
Genre: Can't be a prince without money, Confirmed manwhores don't get to be princes either, Depressing, Gen, Only the rich and the beautiful get to be special in the real world, Post-Series, Prompt Fic, Reunion, no one wins
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-28
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-03 22:26:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2890226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gorgeousshutin/pseuds/gorgeousshutin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten years later, two ex-princes reunite under harshly-realistic circumstances.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Slant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slant/gifts).



> This fic is meant to fulfill a prompt by the talented Slant @AO3 to put Utena and Anthy in this really depressing post-series situation. Either way Slant, a late Merry X’mas, and this one’s for you ;-)

Utena characters belong to their various owners.

 

Once, instead of a princess to be protected, I wanted to become a strong, noble prince.  
  
Silly as that may sound now, I really did used to think like that, back when I still was naive enough to believe in the existence of princes bearing both strength and nobility.  
  
I’ve since learned the hard way that strength and nobility are often (if not always) mutually-exclusive qualities for any individual to harbor simultaneously; yes even for the impossible ideal as attributed to princes.  
  
A prince is, in the end, quite-simply someone who is admired by others for their ability to exercise power.  
  
Even the likes of me had a period in my life when I was something of the sort. A decade ago, my fourteen-year-old self -- a girl made outstanding and popular by her (frankly, only above-average) athletic prowess -- was, to many of my adolescent schoolmates, a prince.  Only way afterwards, when looking back, do I truly realized that hey, I too used to possess them rare qualities that made me noticeable, clamored-upon, “special”.  
  
Once.  
  
Fool that I was, I never even knew just what I’ve lost till it’s gone.  
  
Now that I’m a child no more, I know also how there are marked differences between qualifications of a school prince, and those of an adult, real-world prince.  After all, the prince’s power must be one that their world – the social setting they’re situated within – deem as being important.   
  
That’s right; a prince isn’t something you can just say you are or aren’t on your own -- you need your world to label you as being one.  
  
To school-bound children whose problems can still be solved by physical strength, jock status is seen as this glorious, flaunt-worthy sign of strength.  In the world beyond school, where everyone actually has to earn their pay to survive, money --important even to schoolchildren -- then becomes the main currency of power.  Simply put, only those who possessed the right qualities, in the right world, get to be princes.  
  
To stay a prince, through changing times and places, one needs to constantly acquire new qualities –- often at the cost of discarding old ones.  
  
I myself have not managed to shine past my prime, prince-scale wise.  
  
Nor could this ex-prince of mine from my troubled youth, apparently.  
  
Thought the qualifications vary as per the setting, one must have at least the appearance of being somewhat noble to be called a prince.  
  
Prince-no-more, this man, whom I remember (correctly?) to be so good at appearing classy and noble back in my school years, now is running what could only be described as a den of blatant ill-repute.  
  
It’s a den I’m just about to set foot upon.  
  
Yes, I am going to him, now, not because it so happens to be ten exact years ago to this day that I last saw him face to face.  No, I’m going to him only because I’ve got this demand to make on him.  
  
I’m counting him not being able to refuse me out of fear -- not of me, of course, but rather, what I’ve been harboring painfully within my husk for this past decade.  
  
Back straight, I clasp my hand around the golden handle of the establishment’s flamboyantly designed front door, and pull.  
  
  
  
 **To be Continued . . . ?**


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! To think this short fic would gather so much attention in so little time . . . boy, do I feel stupid now for having spent years on something like Seinen Kakumei.

Utena characters belong to their various owners.   
  
  
“So this is the Ends of the World . . .”  
  
“An underground starry sky over a rose-decorated Byzantine castle arena . . . what flair!  
  
“After seeing this, I do not _ever_ want to look at real stars anymore . . .”  
  
Absently listening in on the bejeweled matrons’ excited chattering, I keep to my corner of the elevator cage (exact same style as that from Ohtori Tower, only larger and golden) currently taking me down to the club’s massive underground space.     
  
Even though this is kinda what I’ve expected this place to be like, actually seeing it still had me reeling from something I’d have termed as nostalgia, had it not been quite so . . . bitter.  
  
While observing the fantastical designs in silence, the matrons’ conversation starts taking a turn for the amorous.  
  
“Well, _I_ can’t wait to see the _‘real stars’_ of this renowned joint.”  
  
“The hosts here are said to be exceptionally princely as hosts go . . .”    
  
“Do you know?  They offer this ‘make your own prince’ option, where you can handpick the kind of clothes and hairstyle for your named host . . . down to what cologne he wears for when he comes to you!”  
  
Ten years ago, the child I was could never even conceive of nearing a host club, let alone walking into one.  Bearing princely ideals, along with what naïve prudishness stemming from my upper-middle-class origins, I would have deemed such establishments to be ignoble -- to the point of being **shameful**.  
  
Though of course, nothing could be more shamefully ignoble than a supposed “good-girl” knowing entering a relationship with an engaged man, and I’ve already done that at fourteen.  
  
Back then, I certainly never thought I’d ever see that man -- so upstanding-in-appearance back in the day –- actually start one.  
  
Renowned for its top-quality designs and staff, the aptly named Ends of the World is said to have revolutionized the seedy world of Japan’s “Water Trade” for becoming the first and only host club to host major bureaucrat social functions.  As people are sheep, seeing these top politicians –- the  “special” people of the adult world –- _openly_ backing the luxury host club has actually changed the country’s views towards the entire nighttime entertainment industry. Nowadays, even “respectable” women get to spend money at host clubs with the same openness as they do at dessert cafes and beauty parlors.    
  
“Ooh, can I pick his undies too?  I hate when an otherwise hot ‘erotic guy’ strip down to reveal some tacky thong . . .”  
  
Though of course, hosts are still just hosts –- men considered as mere playthings by “classy” patrons such as these.  
  
“Say, what kind of host do _you_ plan on picking tonight?”  
  
Startled at being addressed, I turn slowly towards thoee woman, and see that they’re eyeing me –- specifically, my worn out t-shirt and jeans –- with mocking disdain.  
  
“Oh, stop teasing her.  Surely you can tell there’s no way she’d be a patron here?”  
  
“It’s okay now.  But next time, maybe you’d use the back entrance?  I’m sure this place, like any other upper-class venue, have rules in place to keep janitors and such out of sight during business hours, ne?”    
  
Sadistic streak sated, these “ladies” again ignore me as they giggle haughtily from amongst themselves.  
  
In my early youth, there had been numerous instances where people take issue with the way I stood out with how I dress.  Though of course, back then, the issue had always been with gender role; now, now the issue is class.  These women, whatever sparkling background they might have, are bullies.  As an adolescent, I’d always dealt with bullies by physically beating them down.  Currently an adult, I itch to do the some, with only the too-real possibility of getting arrested holding me back.  
  
Although, should I let out a few of what I’ve got sheathed inside my body, surely no earthy authority could trace--  
  
No.  Even though I long to slap that smugness off their makeup-caked faces, not even these shallow, snobbish bitches are deserving of having to face _those_ \--  
  
“Tenjou-kun.”  
  
Stopping, the elevator opens its gates to reveal the speaker’s tall figure, his dark, masculine beauty effectively stunning the mouthy matrons into silence.    
  
“I’ve been expecting you,” says Himemiya Akio, flashing me that same rakishly indulgent smile I well remember from my girlhood.  “Then, let’s continue this over somewhere more . . . private.”  
  
Taking me by hand amidst shocked exclamations from the matronly bystanders, the prince of my girlhood then smoothly draws me out of the elevator cage and into his current fairytale kingdom.  
  
“See Tenjou-kun?  The stars and their constellations are shining down on us in this glittery night, and we tread surrounded by roses and . . . look, the Prime Minister’s wife is over there with her lady bureaucrat friends having their own tea party, where the vanilla torte cake is prepared by yours truly.   Remember?  That used to be your favorite dessert from back when I made it for you at the Tower . . .”   
  
Deprived from all things romantic or fine for as long as I have, I would have blushed at Akio’s ever-gallant presentation, would have giggled at the inelegantly-dropped jaws of those society ladies now staring our way in jealous disbelief, would have felt as though time had not passed since those better days from Ohtori, and bad blood never having spilled . . . if not for the cluttering of innumerable sword tips currently framing the corners of my vision.  One sword, in particular, points cursor-like at a mirror in the hall, where an exotic young host barely yet in his twenties can be seen leading this older, shabby hag past those beautiful/famous/special ladies gathered around the extravagant hall, many of whom wincing at her frizzled out pink hair in sheer disgust . . .   
  
Yes, I can always trust in _them_ to drag me back down to reality, and remind me of how I have no hope of ever returning to some sweetly innocent past since _soured_ by ugly reality.  
  
Steps no longer springy and light, I let the make-believe prince pull me away from the judging crowd and into some private room.  
  
“ . . . reserved this VIP lounge just for this occasion.  See? even though it’s at the back, there is no room of higher caliber here, or in the world.   I’ve made sure to use the poppies you liked as a theme for the décor.  Remember what the poppy means in the Language of Flow--”     
  
“Enough.”  
  
Having his charming, lulling tirade cut off by my low growl, Akio turns slowly to glance down and upon me with something like genuine hurt within those deep-set green eyes.  “Tenjou-kun, I’m only trying to--”  
  
“I said _enough!_ ”  I bark, my clenched fists shaking in spite of my willing them still.  “I didn’t come here braving your oh-so-special patrons just to try out your goddamned host-fu, you sorry has-been of a prince!”    
  
“Oh . . . ” Even now, his voice and expression remains patiently gentle. “Then, for what have you come here today?”    
  
Having none of his nice-guy act, I steel myself for the possibly violent confrontation up ahead.  
  
“You.”  I smoothly draw out and materialize one phantom sword from amongst the Million currently inhabiting my very soul.  “Tell me where Anthy is!”  
  
  
 **To be Continued . . . ?**


End file.
